The desk next. In addition to a welter of canceled checks, paid bills, and other household records, all more than sixteen months old, I found his checkbook and current check register. The register contained two puzzling entries. On the Tuesday before his death he had made a deposit of five hundred dollars to his account; and he had also written a check in the exact same amount to an unspecified payee, just the date and amount noted. The deposit receipt was tucked in there and it told me the five hundred had all been in cash. Where had he had gotten that much in one lump? And who had been the recipient?
I put the checkbook and register in my pocket, then emptied the drawer into one of the cardboard cartons and added the contents of the safe. Bobbie Jean wouldn’t want any of it, but I saw no reason to leave it for the Hoyts to deal with.
Carrying the box, I went down to the master bedroom. Kerry was coming out of the walk-in closet with a plastic-draped sport coat on a hanger. A few other articles of clothing were laid out on the bed. When she saw me she said, “This coat and those things there are brand-new, never worn. Presents, I suppose. Bobbie Jean can have them sold in a consignment shop if she needs the money. Otherwise... Well, I thought I’d separate them out anyway.”
“Anything else?”
“His jewelry case. Cufflinks, tie tacks, a gold chain, half a dozen silver dollars, and some other old coins.”
“That all?”
“In the case? Yes.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’d’ve told you if there was.”
I left her to finish up in there and wandered downstairs. In the living room was another desk, the small kind with a hinged flap that folds up when you’re not using it. The more current household records were in there, all the checks written in Bobbie Jean’s spidery hand. Eberhardt had always done his own bill-paying; the fact that Bobbie Jean had taken over sixteen months ago meant that he’d either lost interest or fouled up the accounts as a result of his drinking. Without going through any of the papers, I dumped them all in with the stuff from upstairs and then set the box in the hallway.
There was nothing else worth bothering with in the living room. I went into the kitchen. More unpleasant memories: My last visit four years ago, after Eberhardt called off his planned marriage to Bobbie Jean. He’d been hung over that day, his eyes looking as though he were bleeding internally; out boozing the night before, wallowing in self-pity. I’d flung angry words at him about that and about driving drunk, and they’d escalated into an attack on his careless work habits. I’ve spent half my time either doing your work or covering your ass... When are you going to grow up, accept responsibility? We were here in the kitchen then, him sucking down orange juice for his hangover thirst. And he’d flung angry words back at me. You come into my house and dump shit all over me, now it’s my turn. Hard to get along with... reckless as hell... self-righteous pain in the ass... Standing nose-to-nose, trading insults, and I’d lost my temper and shoved him, and he’d bull-rushed me, and my unthinking reaction was to hit him. Sucker-punch in the gut, not pulling it, putting him on the floor and then afterward into the bathroom to vomit. Kid stuff; I’d regretted it instantly, tried in vain to smooth it over. Hurt pride, fuel for the grudge he’d never stopped nursing. But our friendship and our partnership had been dead for him long before that. If it hadn’t been for that stupid punch in the belly, he’d have found some other excuse to walk.
Same thing last Wednesday morning, I thought. Ready to go out, and all he’d needed was a final excuse.
I didn’t linger in the kitchen, the hell with it. I shoved through the connecting door into the garage. Years ago he’d turned it into a home workshop, cramming it so full of woodworking equipment he’d had to park his car and Bobbie Jean hers in the driveway or on the street. Another of his lost interests: dust everywhere, rust on the blade teeth on his table saw and band saw, a half-finished table so long abandoned the wood showed cracks and mildew stains under its dust shroud. Maybe Joe DeFalco could use some of this stuff; he collected and restored antique gambling equipment, his one passion other than newspaper work, and he had a workshop of his own. I made a mental note to ask him next time we talked.
Against the rear wall was a storage area. Most of what was there was junk, but among the litter was the metal locker in which he’d kept his fishing gear. It was all still there gathering dust and cobwebs: spinning rods and fly rods, including the Dennis Bailey parabolic bamboo rod that had been his favorite; reels and hip boots and the beat-up rattan creel he’d had since he was a kid; tackle box and the two big fly cases. I opened one fly case, then the other. Nymphs, streamers, dry flies, wet flies. Bugs with names like Bitch Creek Special and Gray Fox Variant. Dozens of top-quality lures, among them two I’d always admired — a #8 Jay-Dave Hopper and a #12 Hairwing Coachman for better visibility in heavy water. I hesitated, looking at the flies. Take them along? At least the Hopper and the Coachman... maybe the Bailey fly rod, too? It would be a shame to let them go to Goodwill and some fisherman who might not appreciate them. But did I want even this much of a reminder of him, the fishing trips we’d taken together to Black Point and the Sierras, the good times before the bad?
No, I thought, no. I don’t want anything of his. Not a goddamn thing.
I shut the locker, went back inside the kitchen. Kerry had come down and was halfheartedly poking around in there. She shook her head; I shook mine. Her expression said she was already fed up with this morbid bone-picking and couldn’t we for God’s sake hurry it up and go home?
We hurried. Another forty-five minutes and we were through with the rest of the rooms and all the closets. And what we had separated out, including the articles of clothing from the bedroom, fit into just three cartons. So damn little worth saving, and at that, some if not most of what we were carrying away — the household records, for one thing — would eventually be discarded or given away to strangers.
A man lives sixty years and this is all he leaves behind in the way of worthwhile material possessions. This little pile, along with memories good and bad in those he touched, is the sum total of his existence.
We took the stuff out and loaded it into the car and I returned to the porch to lock up. I had the key out and ready when I changed my mind. There was no thought involved; it was impulse, or maybe a sudden compulsion. I called to Kerry, “Hold on a minute, I’ll be right back,” and hurried inside and through the kitchen into the garage. I emptied the storage locker of everything except the wading boots and tackle box and spinning rods and reels. Loaded myself down with the rest so I wouldn’t have to make a second trip and brought it out to the car.
Kerry didn’t say anything; neither did I. There are some actions that don’t need words. Or rationalization or justification, either.
9
Pam and Cliff Hoyt lived in Ross, one of the more affluent Marin County communities. Their house was a neo-Victorian with a half-wraparound front porch, shaded by conifers and spiky yew trees and one enormous magnolia in the middle of the lawn. A basketball hoop and net above the double garage doors pointed up the fact that they had a son. He was nine now and his name was Jason; he was Bobbie Jean’s only grandchild.